Song to Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
         And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 
         And I’ll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
         Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, 
         I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
         Not so much honouring thee 
As giving it a hope, that there 
         It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe, 
         And sent’st it back to me; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 
         Not of itself, but thee.